


Blindfold

by LinneaLund



Category: The 100, The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: F/M, University AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3844072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinneaLund/pseuds/LinneaLund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke has one last class to take before graduation, but her professor – Dr. Bellamy Blake – proves to be more of an issue than she expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blindfold

**Blindfold**

Clarke is six months from graduation when she discovers she’s short one class. Cursing fate, she enrolls in a history class – the only course that will fit her grad studies schedule and still allow her time in the studio. She’s not particularly interested in medieval history, but the other choice is physical education, and there is _no_ way Clarke’s spending two days a week in the gym. She takes a seat at the back of the amphitheatre, dropping her paint-splattered backpack next to her (warning the irritatingly cheerful undergrads to stay away). Scowling, Clarke kicks her feet on the seat in front of her, sliding low and picking at the holes in her jeans.

She’s already decided she’s auditing this class. Her _real interest_ is in the artist studio, but this history class has to be done and damnit, she’s going to do it. All she needs is to pass. Nothing more. Nothing less. She crosses her arms on her chest, tucking in her ear buds and cranking the music. Her eyes are already on the hands of the clock.

_It’s going to be a long semester._

She’s still watching the seconds tick away when the door opens one last time, and another student comes in. _Or is he a student?_ her mind asks in surprise. Tall and dark, he’s got the muscled build of a rugby player, but he doesn’t have the tell-tale backpack of a student. She’s never seen him before. (Clarke knows, she’d remember that face.) She smirks, letting an artist’s gaze draw him in: narrow, high-planed features, almost symmetrical enough to be called pretty, freckles across his nose and cheeks, curving lips and amber eyes, though there’s a tightness to his expression that intrigues her. A line of annoyance rests between his brows, an angry flicker in his jaw. _Grad student then?_ She sits up, watching his progress with interested eyes. He heads up the stairs to the back of the room, and she cautiously lifts her backpack up, sliding it surreptitiously to the floor, leaving the seat open… just in case.

He doesn’t stop.

Instead he heads to the back wall, dimming the lights and adjusting the projector and clicking through the screen until he reaches a computer screen. The wallpaper on the desktop is of caves of some kind and Clarke frowns, leaning forward as she struggles to place the blurry image. Clarke’s an only child, her mother and father the only family Clarke has. In the year and a half since their dual-retirement, Abby and Jake have become obsessed with travel. This summer the two of them visited Iceland and since then spelunking has been one of their favourite hobbies. She wonders if that’s what this is.

From beside her, a voice speaks.

“It’s the catacombs under Paris,” he says, answering her unspoken question, “I was there in 2012 helping restore them after they were vandalized.”

Clarke turns, her eyes widening. He’s standing next to her now, staring down. In the shadows of the room she can’t see the color of his eyes, but she can tell he’s watching her.

“Huh,” she mutters, begrudgingly impressed. “Sounds pretty cool.”

He chuckles. “You don’t have to lie,” he says with a grin, “it’s all old bones and tunnels.”

Clarke shrugs, wondering why she wants to smile so badly at his answer. She bites the inside of her cheeks instead, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, you know,” she says with a snort, “whatever turns your crank.”

He makes a coughing noise, as if smothering a laugh, turning away and taking two steps, then turning back to her once more.

“I’m Dr. Blake by the way,” he says, eyebrows pulled together as if frustrated by something. “The prof teaching this class.”

She smiles slowly, catching the way his gaze lingers for a moment on her features. Cheeks, lips, eyes. There’s something else there and it’s decidedly _not_ like a professor to student.

“Clarke Griffin,” she answers, raising her chin smugly. “I’ll be the one sitting in the back, heckling you for wasting my time.”

His smile widens and he offers his hand. “Troublemaker, are you?”

“I’ve been called worse,” Clarke snorts, reaching out and taking his hand, _meaning_ to say something else, but words abruptly fail her. His hand is warm, his fingers rough and calloused and suddenly she finds her throat thick and tight. His face flickers in surprise, and he holds on for just a second too long.

“A-are you a student, Clarke?” he asks warily. “Or a…”

He doesn’t say what his other assumption might be.

“I’m a grad student,” she says, struggling to regain her bravado. “Just need this one last class and I’m outa here.”

His smile falters and disappears, and he pulls his hand back just a little too fast, shoving it deep in his pocket.

“Well then,” he says, his expression decidedly cooler. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Good to meet you too, Professor.” She drops her gaze up and down his body and he blushes, and shakes his head. “ _Really_ good.”

“Mmph,” he mutters, then turns away.

It’s only when he’s walking back down the stairs that she lets herself breathe again.

: : : : : : : : : :

It’s a physical ache for Bellamy to stay away from Clarke Griffin the rest of the semester. She’s there at the back of the room, taunting him endlessly, teasing him about things that shouldn’t really be funny (and yet, are when she brings them up). There’d been the discussion on the ergot blight on the rye in Europe, and the resultant crop-failures. Suddenly Clarke’s cat calling from the darkness, her hand outstretched at the back of the room.

“Yes, Clarke,” Bellamy says with a long-suffering sigh.

She smirks. “But you’re missing the best part,” she teases, her voice warm in the shadows.

“How so?” he asks warily. (Clarke’s random tangents are never _quite_ what he expects.)

“You ever seen the paintings by Bosch?” she asks.

Bellamy purses his lips, tipping his head to the side.

“Yes,” he says patiently, “I’ve seen Hieronymous Bosch’s paintings. Garden of Earthly Delights, right?”

She cackles, the sound of her laughter shooting right to his groin.

“Yes, Professor Blake,” she laughs, stretching his name out like school-yard taunt. “But have you ever really _looked at them_?” She pauses, her eyes on him, waiting. The silence lingers a second too long as if she is deciding how _far_ to push him. “I mean they’re fucked up. Right? The guy was on drugs.”

Around the room, other students hoot with laughter. Bellamy’s control of his classroom wavering.

“Look, I don’t really think that—”

“My mother’s a doctor,” she shouts. “My dad’s a biologist. We’ve talked about this before. That’s how I know.”

“Know _what,_ exactly?”

Her grin widens. “By-product of ergot. What is it?”

Bellamy frowns. He is starting to feel really off-center wherever Clarke Griffin is concerned. She comes and goes as she pleases, doing the bare minimum of work to pass (though what she hands in shows a brilliance he wishes he could talk to her about.(Wants to do more than just talk, actually.)

“I… I don’t know,” Bellamy admits with a weary laugh, lifting up his hands in defeat. “Do tell. What is the by-product of ergot?”

Students are turning to stare up at her, grinning, waiting for her answer. Bellamy can’t even be annoyed by it... for god’s sake _he wants to hear it too!_

“Ergot produces LSD,” she says with a chortle. “Might have been the dark ages, but man these people were tripping.”

And the classroom erupts into chaos.

: : : : : : : : : :

He knows her show is the official ‘end’ to her tenure as a student. She’s already received her certificate of a Masters’ of Arts and walked the stage. (Bellamy knows, he watched her, and shook her hand afterward, fighting down a groan as her tongue flicked out, wetting her upper lip.) After tonight, she’s no longer the grad student, _she’s a graduate_ \- his peer - and this thing he keeps fighting is no longer the thorn in his side it has been the last six months. He decides not to attend her opening (though he walks through the gallery on his own, staring open-mouthed, at the lurid swirls of colour, spreading like galaxies across the vast sheets of canvas). The paintings are epic in scope. Breathtaking and overwhelming.

_Like her,_ his mind whispers in admiration.

No... going to the opening would be too much temptation, so he heads down to the pub instead. The Duke of Wellington is a faculty and student lounge. You’re just as likely to run into the Dean of Graduate studies as the Students Union president. Bellamy doesn’t _know_ that she’s going to end up here tonight, but he hopes she will. So he brings a book by Andrew Hussey – _The Secret History of Paris_ – orders a pint of dark ale, and settles in to wait.

He doesn’t have long.

Sometime before midnight, she’s suddenly at his side, striding up to the table as if invited. He glances up, smiling. Clarke’s wearing a narrow-cut black dress that slides over her curves, sheer nylons and high heels. She looks older, somehow, with the makeup on. More worldly. He’s just about to compliment her when she speaks.

“You didn’t even bother to show up,” she hisses. “What the fuck is with that?!?”

Bellamy blinks in shock. She’s furious.

“What?”

She pulls out a chair with a squeal, dropping down next to him.

“I thought we were friends,” she hisses. “I _invited you_ to come.”

She’s leaning in, cheeks flushed with colour, her breasts heaving with angry pants. Clarke’s close enough he could kiss her now. _But he doesn’t dare._ They’ve been something, but ‘friends’ isn’t one of them. He doesn’t quite trust himself with her. She’s too volatile, and he’s already fallen into the trap. He knows, without doubt, he’d throw away his career for her. The only other person he feels this kind of protectiveness for is Octavia, his younger sister, but his feelings for Clarke are decidedly _not_ those of a sibling.

“I- I know,” he admits, closing the book and reaching out a hand, setting it atop her arm. “I just thought I should... give you space.” He shrugs. “It was your night, Clarke. I didn’t want to intrude with you and your friends.”

She lets out an angry breath, shaking her head. His thumb has found its way to the soft skin of her inner elbow, and he pauses there now, her heartbeat beating under his fingertips. She doesn’t seem to notice, so she doesn’t pull away.

“You’re a terrible fucking liar,” she snaps, not holding his eyes. “If you didn’t want to come you should’ve just said it!”

His hand wraps around her elbow, pulling her in closer. This time she seems to realize what he’s doing, her eyes dropping down in shock. _He doesn’t let go._

“It wasn’t that... or not _just that,_ ” he admits quietly. “And I’m sorry.”

She’s staring down at his hand, her lips parted. He can see her anger wavering into something else.

“I... I wanted to show you my paintings.”

Bellamy chuckles and she glances back up.

“I saw the show,” he admits with a lopsided grin. “I couldn’t wait. I went a couple days ago.”

Her face ripples in surprise, and then disappointment.

“You _knew_ you weren’t going to come tonight. You said you would, _but you already knew._ ” Her expression droops. “You lied to me.”

He swallows hard, selecting his words carefully. “I didn’t think I _should._ ”

She frowns. “But why, Bellamy?”

It’s the use of his given name that does it. Any other day he would have let go, stepped away, moved back. (Done the smart thing with Clarke Griffin.) Tonight he doesn’t. He leans in until his mouth is almost against her ear. “Because I didn’t think I could pretend if I was around you. I’ve been lying this entire semester… and it’s getting harder by the day.” His fingers tighten, and for a moment he doesn’t move, the pub’s din hiding his words. “I couldn’t be there tonight, because if I was, Clarke, everyone _else_ would see how I felt about you, too.”

“Oh!” The word comes out as a gasp.

Bellamy lets go, but Clarke doesn’t move. She seems to consider his words for a long moment. Suddenly she reaches out an open palm, taking hold of his hand and dragging him up from the table.

“You haven’t seen them all,” she says with a grin. “I have one at the studio.” Her fingers tighten on his. “And I’m taking you for a private viewing.”

: : : : : : : : : :

Clarke is beside Bellamy in the one-room apartment that serves as both lodging (though that’s stretching it) and artist’s studio. She’s the only one who can see for now. Bellamy has his necktie wrapped tightly around his eyes, (Clarke’s idea, of course), and he holds onto her hand, walking in carefully measured steps, relying on her as a guide. She likes the idea... can’t help but think of what _else_ they could do like this.

“Here,” Clarke says quietly, “this is the one. It’s still wet, so I couldn’t bring it to the show.”

Bellamy’s feet stop, and he waits. Nervous now that the moment is here, she steps around behind him and Bellamy’s hand follows her back, only letting go when she slips her hand free. She slides her fingers up his back, moving into his black hair, placing her hands on either side of the make-shift blind-fold, touching him more than she needs to.

“You ready?” she asks, her breath warm against his ear. Nervous, she glances around the room: bed, dresser, countless canvases. It’s clean, at least, she thinks. There’s not much else to speak of.

“Ready,” Bellamy nods.

Clarke reaches for the knot, tugging it free, and his tie slides down, dropping over his shoulder.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, “that just... that’s amazing.”

Where her other paintings are hazy blurs of light and shadow – (some reminiscent, her art profs say, of images from the Hubble Space telescope) – this one is a self-portrait. It’s Clarke in profile, her face cast in shadow. There’s a sadness to this self-portrait that Clarke finds difficult to share, but for some reason, she doesn’t mind with Bellamy. She has a sense he’d understand. He’s seen life. He’s lived.

Staring upward, Clarke feels Bellamy’s arm move sideways, reaching out to catch hold of her hand once more. His fingers wrap around hers, holding on tighter than he did when she had him blindfolded. She glances up at him, nervously waiting for him to comment on the style. To say something _else_ about the painting. He does neither of these things. He turns to her.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

Clarke smirks. “I’m not really good at portraits,” she says. “My graduate show is mainly abstract-“

“I’m not talking about the painting.”

Her eyes widen.

Bellamy smiles, but there’s a dangerous edge to it. “I think _you’re_ beautiful, Clarke. So goddamned beautiful.”

Her voice catches. “Y-you do?”

“Yeah, I do, Princess.”

Clarke giggles, but the sound disappears as Bellamy pulls her closer. This is _real_ all of a sudden and she can barely breathe. His hands slide up her arms to cup her chin. For a long moment they stand, caught on the decision. He isn’t her prof anymore and she’s not a student, Clarke reminds herself. There’s no reason _not_ to follow through with this. (She did bring him home, after all.)

Clarke leans closer. Their mouths are a breath apart. “What are you waiting for?” she whispers.

Bellamy doesn’t answer. He kisses her instead.


End file.
